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IT'S STRANGE how pain works. Even the most detrimental, paralyzing injuries will still torture more of the mind than any of the body. How one hides it though, the kind of pain that doesn't cause a bruise or a sprain, that's what determines the magnitude of their grief.
Not even the tissue or the flesh above it could stop that bear trap from tasting the meat of Valentina's calf. If it weren't for the muscle around the bone, her leg would have shattered. She was lucky. She didn't feel it, but she hid it well.
Lucky, she means. She didn't feel lucky. She definitely felt that bear trap.
Six sharp teeth, two inches long each, went deep into her skin, penetrating the soleus muscle and nearly tearing it into two. It was a miracle it didn't. Strings of flesh hung the tissue together long enough to keep the leg and have it practically sewn back together.
Sometimes Valentina wished she'd severed a nerve on that night. That she'd bled out and never had to continue living with the memories of that night that haunted her every night since. Losing the leg would've killed her physically, with all the blood loss. But keeping it, and living the way she has to now, she might as well have been dead.
Almost a year later and Valentina was still experiencing the pain of her injury. She would be for the rest of her life, and that was her fault. She couldn't just stay off the leg, do the physical therapy, and take the prescriptions like she was supposed to. No, she had to grieve. She had to grieve the loss of her leg, the loss of a normal life, and in the least normal way. Seriously, why couldn't she just go to therapy and cry like other people? Why'd she have to get addicted to drugs, and start a whole other grieving process? One that was ten times harder to quit. At this rate, she'd probably be taking opiods for the rest of her life.
By the time the trio reached Dustin's designated location to trap Dart, the old junkyard, Valentina's left leg was screaming in pain. She didn't even want to look at what she assumed would be swollen, tender skin beneath the fabric of Steve's sweatpants.
She hoped the boy wouldn't mind how dirty these pants would be when she eventually gave them back—filled with sweat and literal dirt. She also hoped he hadn't noticed the limp that kicked in about thirty minutes ago. She couldn't stand to hear another inspiring speech about how she wasn't alone and that she had people to lean on, one that he would no doubt give her as soon as he noticed her pain.
The truth was that Valentina had no one to lean on anymore. Not Steve, not Carol, not even her mother. And she was struggling to stand physically, but no injury could hurt her more than it did her mind.
Last night was the first time Valentina allowed herself to pass her grievance onto other people. She cried on Steve's shoulder, and ending up sleeping even closer than that. Never would she do that again.
Valentina Varner's grief was a private, personal process. She didn't need anyone's helping hand—although she would appreciate a literal pair of crutches right now.
